All that week was time that Oliver had spent in a cell, on the hard and damp prison mattress, eating their dungeon food, listening to the guardsmen's banter as his only source of real entertainment, shooing away rats when they came searching for his scraps, and generally just enduring what many would call a miserable time.
Yet his peace lasted for that duration. He had time with his thoughts, and he found that his temper was not frayed. He was in a position of peace that he hadn't achieved in the longest time. These were long days – days all to himself, where nothing was expected of him. It was a good time, quality time. It was time that he spent reviewing all that had happened to him, pausing in a way that he hadn't been able to until now.
